To Kingdom Come
by kitizl
Summary: AU. Arsonists, anarchists, psychopaths, secret services, rogue agents and total chaos. What could you possibly want more?
1. The Meeting

**A/N : Excessively AU. I've always wanted to write this, but it happens. It's also extremely inspired by Aaron Sorkin, especially by the Social Network, so I'm really wanting to finish this out.**

It's one of those days. I'm usually called out around 5 in the evening to _Café de Plume,_ in a text message from an unknown number.

Café de Plume. An unusually French restaurant right smack in the middle of London. I suspect whether it is even French. Just because they have an accent on top of the e doesn't mean it's a French diner.

Another text. Seat 41. Time to move.

* * *

It's empty.

Nobody's there.

It doesn't matter. I remove my scarf, and throw it on my shoulder. Then I sit on the seat, before some wack waiter comes up to me and says, "You can't sit that way in a restaurant sir."

"I have to sit like this."

"Why?"

"Otherwise my deductive powers drop by a factor of 7 percent."

"Oh, really, sir."

"Yes, really. I'm not kidding."

"You're not kidding."

"I'm not kidding. Now, we can prolong this endless interrogation, or we can move on. Get me a cake."

"I'm sorry?"

"Strawberry flavoured. That'll get me started."

"You want a cake?"

"And ice cream. I trust you people do have ice cream?"

"I'm sorry sir, you must get out."

"Sir."

The waiter was growing impatient.

"Look, I was just being polite. Get out."

"You just called me sir."

"I was being polite."

"I was assuming, you know, being in a French diner, you'd atleast call me monsieur or something."

"Monsieur, sir, madam, I don't care. Get out before my manager kicks you out forcibly."

"Can I get my cake."

"For god sakes, you can't sit like that."

"Are you kicking me out because of cake?"

"Why would I do that?"

"I haven't heard of French cakes."

"No, I'm kicking you out because_"

"Or is it the ice cream."

"This diner is capable of serving you whatever you need, alright. I'm kicking you out, because you sit like that, the seat's going to get ruined."

"Oh," I looked away, biting my thumb. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"Wha- That's what I started off with?"

"I'm sorry, why are you being so impolite?"

"Oh for fuck's sake." The waiter gave up, and walked to another customer.

I smirk. I look below, and try to think of who this mystery person might be.

There are so many people who still don't know who I am. Maybe that is the point.

Code name L, I'm an agent working for her Majesty's secret service. And maybe that's the reason why nobody suspects I'm an agent. Because I'm a secret agent.

That makes sense.

Or we'll assume that makes sense.

This restaurant is not French. This is so fake.

So the my co customers in this restaurant are quite boring. The person sitting exactly laterally from me is a really old woman. Really old woman. She's been having red tomato soup.

That tomato soup is too red for anyone's good. Either that, or it's not tomato. It's something else.

The door rings.

I look around.

Oh, not her.

 _Not her._

"Hi", she chirps in front of me.

"What do you want, Misa?" I reply. "I'm on an important meeting."

"Set up by me!" she chirped.

"Stop chirping."

She shuts her mouth, almost mockingly.

"How did you get my number?"

"Do you remember what you always say about emotions?"

I sigh. "What did I say?"

"About motivators. Try and remember" she says earnestly. In some attempt to get my attention, obviously.

The thing is, I clearly remember. And I can see her line of argument. I know where she's coming to. I don't like that conclusion.

"The world's most powerful motivators are jealousy, anger and…"

"…and..?"

"Love."

There was an awkward pause. The same waiter came back.

"Would you like anything madam?"

"I'll have whatever he is having."

He looked at me, stared intently.

"You'll have what he is having?" he smiles, quite uncomfortably.

"Why not? He's having cake right?"

I smile, and look out the window. And they have the same line of conversation that we had a few minutes ago.

And we kicked out.

Walking into Trafalgar Square, she starts tugging on my hand. I already walk with a hunch back, and her tugging on my hand is not a good thing.

"What do you want?"

 _"_ Do you love me?"

Not again.

"That's a question I'm not at liberty to answer."

"It's a simple yes or no."

"The answer to the question 'Is the United States of America' dropping in spies in and around Syria is also a yes or a no. Doesn't mean I'm at liberty to discuss it."

"Your feelings for me is equivalent to spying on Syria."

"In my head, yes."

"So you do have feelings for me."

"I do."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Wait."

"Whether it's a feeling of attraction or absolute repulsion, is another story."

"You're such an asshole."

"Well I'm also a freaking genius, but I'm not the one who fell in love with me."

"Really? You're 80 percent narcissistic."

"I'm talking about my other 20."

"That makes no sense."

"Or does it?"

"I've lost you."

"Well technically, you're lost in me."

And that shut her up.

A few minutes later, she says she's got a meeting at the other end of town. I raise an eyebrow. She kisses me on the cheek, and leaves immediately.

"These women…"

My phone clicks. I open and check it out. I'm wanted at the base immediately. Time for detective work again.


	2. Number One

**A/N: Hi there. I didn't give much of an author's note in the last chapter. So, yeah, long time no see. I've been flooded with work, and this story just came out of nowhere. I'm writing my boards in a few months, so it's going to be worse, I guess. But anyway, this story is all twisted as far as I'm concerned. There's going to be a lot of switching of perspectives, narratives, writing formats etc. I'm going to go all out on this story, I guess. But more than anything its really, really experimental, seeing how good can get with speech and stuff. Since its experimental, I think it's more important that you people review, and tell me whether its working or not. Or if you're one of those shy types, then I guess you could PM me.**

 **But as always, enjoy! This is a short chapter inserted to provide continuity.**

* * *

As the abandoned factory burned down, the Scotland Yard took their time to assemble. The yellow tape was drawn across the perimeter, and the firetrucks slowly withdrew. Two detectives entered the demarcated area after putting up a small fight with the press.

"I'm not implying anything," the taller one said, clearly being a man. "I'm directly telling you, Trump is just wrong."

"Substantiate," smiled the smaller one, clearly being a woman.

"We have a burnt factory here, and you want me to substantiate why I want to vote for Clinton."

"Hey, small talk."

"Small talk is boring. Denny! Denny, over here! Yes, brief us, quickly, we have no time."

The young man named Denny came running towards them with a small legal pad clutched in his hands. "Yes sir. This was a film manufacturing unit that was run my Eros Inc. and was shut down fifteen years ago due to lack of demand. The nature of the fire strongly suggests that it was arson, and we have our men looking into it, sir."

"Brilliant job, as usual, Denny," the woman detective spoke up. "Do you have any survivors of the fire?"

"…it was abandoned, ma'am." Denny was confused.

"It need not be organic. Anything." She explained. "A fob watch, a calender, a diary, a suicide note, anything."

"Ah," Denny nodded. "We found a little piece of parchment that was rolled tightly inside a small aluminum canister that survived the explosion. I couldn't make it out, so maybe you two should take a look at it."

"Most certainly we will, won't we Bob?" she smiled.

"Damn right we will Diana. Lead the way Denny."

It was not even charred. It was perfectly normal. It wasn't singed, yellowed or anything. It looked like someone just wrote it on a piece of paper now.

"What was the state of the canister when you found it?" Diana enquired.

"The exterior was pretty much battered, and somewhat molten if I may say so," Denny answered. "But the interior was unaffected, thus explaining how the parchment survived the bomb."

"You're sure it's a bomb?" Bob asked.

"Fairly sure, yes. We've detected minute quantities of nitrates scattered across the factory, and since most of them become nitrogen due to the late reaction on our side, we're having difficulty finding out the nature of the bomb."

"But it's a bomb."

"It's a bomb."

"Right. Can you show me the parchment?"

Diana handed the small Ziploc bag that contained the parchment inside it using a pair of tweezers. Bob took it with his hands, and looked at it under the light of a small lamp. He picked up a small magnifying class to examine the inked text with greater clarity.

 ** _Junge me Adveniat regnum tuum._**

"It's Latin. It's Latin, I'm pretty fucking sure its Latin. Diana?"

"It's not a crypt?" Diana replied.

"I'm not sure. Denny, do the boys think it's a code of some sort?"

"No, they don't sir."

"Then it's very much likely that it's Latin. Let me get my phone out."

He opened google translate, and entered the text into the input, and soon enough he got his output.

"Join me to kingdom come," he proclaimed. He laughed under his breath. "Any idea what that-"

 ** _BOOM._**

* * *

 **Yep. It was boring and predictable, but all in the name of continuity. And boredom. Please review!**


	3. Under

There are a finite number of steps before one catches a criminal. These finite steps are determined by a pattern, and it is the job of the detectives to find this pattern. Because your job does not stop with solving one murder, it stops when you find the pattern and prevent future murders or catch all murderers.

Not all secret agents are like the fictitious James Bond. Well, there's actually someone like James Bond here in MI6, from whom the character was maybe inspired, but no. There are a whole lot more detectives than sharpshooters and Inspector gadget over here.

Well, truth being told, there are a lot of mathematicians and economists than _normal_ agents of any kind in MI6.

My phone beeps. I pull it out. It says it's an emergency.

I love it they call me only when it is dangerous.

I walk towards the subway station, and get into a photobooth. I take four photos, three with filters, and one with some kind of distortion effect. I tap a concealed electronic tap under the camera thrice, and the seat vibrates. I get sucked into a large tube, and within seconds, I'm in the MI6 underground headquarters.

"Agent L, Chimera is waiting for you," the receptionist informs me. "Conference room 65."

The room in itself is cylindrical, with a round table with the seat allocated for the best of agents in MI6. The largest seat is allocated to Chimera, who is portrayed as _Pegasus_ in the James Bond movies.

I'm late.

"Sorry I'm late. My cellphone wasn't working," I lied.

"Tardiness has always been your most repulsive characteristic, Agent L," Chimera paused, "Among other things…"

The agents in the room slightly laugh.

"Yet, Chimera, if I'm in Room 65, then the matters are severe enough for you to hold your nose, and not get repulsed by my existence so that I can offer my service to Britain."

The agents laugh again. So does Chimera.

"Take your seat."

Sitting on my right is Agent 005, a slightly stout fellow, with remarkable MMA skills. The stoutness always throws people off. I once punched him in the face for thinking he was trying to disobey me, and he kicked me with a round house. Of course, I'm proficient in Capoeira, so he got badly hurt in the end. But that just made me that much more respectable amongst the other agents.

To my left is Agent Matsui, an overly enthusiastic fellow who has so many letters of commendation that it's slightly suspicious. Like 005, he is a lot more than what meets the eye. I haven't spoken to him much, because his stupidity is sometimes contagious. But I do know he is a very skilled researcher and slightly weak at actual field work.

Directly across the table is _her_ , but Chimera distracts me by clearing his throat.

"Agents. Present on the table in front of you is the file that is provided to us by the Scotland Yard. They are abandoning their investigation on the most recent arsonist who has been blowing up old abandoned buildings repeatedly. They've specifically requested the MI6 to provide help, or in fact take over the case.

"The problem here, is this. We don't usually take up these cases. But there are some factors in this case which have caught my eye. For example, the Scotland Yard has lost all the 6 detectives that were working on this case independently. The mannerism is provided in the report."

I glimpse at it. Successive blasts that caused the death of the main detective and their associate. Now that is some bad luck.

I want some coffee.

"As per protocol 140B, I'm going to form a special investigation unit in order to fix the crisis at hand. The meeting is now open to suggestions, questions and comments."

As always, Agent Mello opens the discussion. "I've got work in the states."

"Your previous job will be reallocated to another agent." Chimera clarifies.

I turn around, looking for a vending machine in the room. There isn't any. I want coffee.

"Ha ha, no, you see, I don't want it to be reallocated. I've been leading the investigation for 4 years, and nobody knows the case as well as me. You reassign it, I assure you, the CIA will catch up, and we're going to lose our jurisdiction."

Chimera considers it for a moment. Mello smiles as he takes a small bite of the chocolate he always has in his hand. The chocolate keeps reminding me of coffee.

"If that is the case, then this would have to be a purely non-mandatory case. Agents whose current investigation has a Goldwein-Starr rating of greater than 8 out of 10, can opt out. The rest, however, cannot."

I hear sighs of relief, and groans of burden.

The meeting disperses after discussing some trivial matters, and I dash and get some extremely sweetened coffee.

Later, I approach Chimera alone in his office.

"Come in, Agent L."

"Yes, sir."

"What would you like to talk to me about?"

"The arson case."

"Yes, what about it?" He doesn't look up from his paper work.

"I want to pursue it alone."

"Why?"

"The other agents have different, often contradictory methods. It would greatly make anyone's investigation inefficient."

"Then why don't you investigate independently?"

"My methods would fail. I'd need complete control of the case."

"I was planning to make you the head."

"I don't want to be the head, I want to be alone."

Chimera puts down his pen and eyes me seriously. I nervously bite my thumb, and scratch my feet with my toes. They itch when I'm nervous.

"I know you've always preferred to work solo. But it seems to me you can't do this alone."

"That's what you think."

"Lawliet."

A shiver goes down my spine.

"Yes."

"You're going to need a team."

"Aw, well. I thought I could try and convince you, but anyway. I'm dropping out, then."

Chimera silently gasps. Not silent enough for me to observe.

"Are you working on something else?"

"I'm working on 27 different investigations that are spread out over 5 countries in this continent. I'm fairly sure, that even if they don't have an 8 rating, the number of cases I'm working on could have a cumulative rating of, approximately 15. In which case, I'm not obliged to do any new case at all.

"But all things said and done, this case is intriguing, and it would be a real pity if I didn't solve it. But I want to do it alone. Not just independently. With complete freedom and power. I'll make sure I follow the rules this time. Promise."

Chimera laughs. "We all know how long that promise lasts."

I smile back. "So what do you say?"

"I'll think about it."

I'm home by 9 in the night. It's really cold. My scarf isn't effective enough. I must remember to buy a long coat or something.

I walk to the living room, and sit on the couch, like I always do – with my legs folded and my knees at my chest. It's convenient that the fridge was within my hand's reach, so I pull out an entire bag of jelly.

Sugar makes me think. Sue me.

I open the laptop right in front of me, and the large monitor in the living room jumps to life.

Maybe I was lying to Chimera about the number of cases I was working on.

I review each and every case, and the status of investigation of every one of the 17 cases I was actually handling.

I create a new case file, and label it case 18, with a caption – The dual arsons.

How could I possibly deny this case? It's definitely more interesting than the other 17.

I pop a jelly into my mouth.

Time to start working again. I smile.

 **A/N: I don't want to jump into the investigative part of the plot just yet. I want to set up the entire universe so that it creates a vivid picture about this AU. I bet most of you are already wondering where Light is. Don't worry, he'll come.**


	4. The Other Side

London was quite at peace after the fourth fire which triggered the Scotland Yard to forfeit the case to the Secret Service. It had been ten weeks, and neither was there any development in the case, nor were there any more fires.

What people did not know was that the Arsonist was actually sketching his plan out. An elaborate plan, made to the greatest precision in such a manner there couldn't possibly be any holes in the plan.

His experiments with the chemicals and the explosives certainly got the attention of the people living in London, but they have no idea what was coming. He now had a fairly complete idea about how explosives work, and also about the efficiency of certain combinations of the chemicals.

"It's all just chemistry", he thought.

His room was dim. He preferred it that way. With piles of paper and sheets filled with schematics penciled without leaving a single inch of space on every single sheet. Building plans and blueprints of the building, with the vulnerable areas highlighted with a red marker.

Joint to this room was a lab, where he conducts his tests at a smaller scale, especially for preparing new variants of accelerants and fuels. The full blown out testing had taken place in those factories in England.

Ha. Blown out.

There was one final test to make, to make sure that the main plan takes off properly, and doesn't stop right in the middle, like those domino trails that people make for the world records. You set one domino off, and all must fall. It isn't nearly as amusing when it stops midway.

It applies for blowing up buildings as well.

He switched on the television as he went to the kitchen sink and washed his charred hands.

He sat on the couch, and observed keenly the manipulation of actual information by the news channels.

 _Is it true that this might be a corporate conspiracy to take advantage of the new insurance laws?_

 _Why isn't the Government taking any action?_

 _Is the Queen safe? A report on the security at Buckingham palace._

"This," he thought. "This, is why nothing could stop me. These people, they have no global sense. Always localized to their own country, or they own government."

He smiled, and almost cackled. But he remembered that he didn't really like to laugh, so he turned the television of and continued drawing schematics for his next target.

It suddenly hit him that his last test, could also serve as a prologue or his entry into the world media. To enter the world in spectacular fashion. To enter the world with a bang.

Or multiple bangs if it comes down to it.

In the evening, he went to the pub. Occasionally, getting the reactions of the people in general would greatly enhance his plan. Especially with everyone half drunk, they would say all kinds of things about the Government and other people, and other countries without much hesitation. It would surely contribute to his plan.

"A beer", he informs the bartender.

He looks around, and examines the pub. It's fairly silent for a Friday. It isn't also that crowded.

"What's happening to business?" he asked the bartender.

"Oh, what, today? I know right, it does seem pretty thin for a Friday evening."

"Did something happen?"

"The kind of world we live in? It becomes crowded only when something happens."

The arsonist chuckled. He swallowed a small portion of his beer.

"They scared that the pub is going to burn down or something?"

"Why would you say such a thing mate? You're a regular, where else are you going to go for a drink?"

"Just saying."

The bartender shrugged it off. The arsonist looked at the foam intently.

"Heyo. I've seen you here for the past 4 years now. How come I've never seen you with a girl?"

The arsonist chuckled as he took another gulp. "Do you think a lad with face like mine can land a girl?"

"Why not? I mean, have you seen Nikki's boyfriend? He looks like the bloody Stonehenge!"

"Is it because he's ancient?"

"He is a lot of things, we can never tell. But he's hideous lookin' alright. Sammy, hello! What will you have tonight?"

He eyed the newcomer into the bar, whose name is apparently Sammy. Short, young guy. He wore a hat that covered his ginger hair. He had no facial hair, which makes people think he's far too young than he actually is, but the cigarette in his mouth breaks those theories.

"Wassup my man?" he gives the bartender a fist bump. The arsonist noted that Sammy was probably American.

"The usual?"

"The usual."

Sammy turned around and looked at the arsonist. "Sup? Name's Sammy. What's yours?"

"You a journalist?" he made a quick guess.

"How'd you guess?" Sammy replied, with suspicion. "Besides, I still don't know your name."

"It's Freddie," he lied. "Alfred Thompson."

"Freddie…" Sammy smiled as he was served his Cuba Lite cocktail. "Freddie, Freddie. You an opinionated person?"

"You could say that."

"Alrighty then. Whatcha think about the fireworks in London recently?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The booms. The explosions, the fires, whatever crap name that the media is giving them. Essentially, they are fireworks, so I'm gonna go ahead and call them fireworks."

"Fireworks are meant to delight, not to terrify."

"You're tellin' me that the guy behind all of this isn't getting' some kinda a kick outta this?"

"So what if he is. He's the only one who is delighted, in that case. But what about the rest? They aren't. They're terrified." He almost felt defeated, but he was really interested in where this journalist was going.

"Does a dog like them fire crackers? Absolutely no frickin way. Why dogs? All of those poor, poor animals that are jus' mindin' their own business, they're flippin terrified every time one of those things go boom."

The arsonist smiles.

"You have a point there." He emptied his glass of beer.

"That's ma' gift." Sammy laughed, almost with a touch of sarcasm.

The arsonist pulled out his wallet and paid for the beer, and before leaving, he said, "Nice talking to you Mister Journalist. See you soon."

"See ya!" Sammy waved him off.

It was raining outside.

"They have no idea what's going to happen," the arsonist chuckled, walking back to his shack dodging a few potholes in the process. "A flash, and a sweep. And before they realize…"

He took in a deep breath.

"Before they realize, they'll be blown to kingdom come."


	5. Break and Cake

"And please get the receipts from the bank at fifteenth. Alright. Thanks. Bye."

I put the phone down.

Done. With all the 17 cases. Now I have to focus on this one.

I like sitting in my living room, with a pot of sugar stained with coffee and have my man do all the leg work for me. He was an information broker a few years ago – an old man at that – and I found him. I guess he feels indebted to me after I made sure that his house wasn't taken away by the Government for not paying his mortgage.

Well I like to dabble in the loopholes of the law.

Another phone call from him. That's the second one today.

"Yes."

"Agent L?"

"Just call me L."

"Okay. The city is fairly quiet. Nothing has been happening for the last few days. I've been visiting a lot of bars and pubs recently, trying to get some clues on who this man is. And so far, no one has come up to even closely suspicious."

I pull out the laptop.

"Can you give me a list of the names of the people you met please?"

"Okay, hold on," he takes out a notebook. "Madison Grey, Heinz Schwarzschild, Donald Freidman, Jonathan Higgs, Alfred Thomas, Lucas Test, Yoko Teramisu…"

And he gives me twenty more names.

So I have twenty seven names of people who he visited – in bars or pubs close to the places where my dear little arsonist might be hiding. But so far nothing has turned up.

"Keep up the work. Try getting some more names into the list. It might also be a girl. Remember that."

Misa. She keeps springing up in my mind. She did mention that love was that most powerful motivator, but I don't think she has gone to that state of a psychotic where she would blow up buildings to get my attention.

She just has to buy me a lot of ice cream. And she _has_ done that before.

"L?"

"I'm still on."

"Would you mind answering me a question?"

"Go ahead."

"It has been 84 days since the last building was blown up. An entire squad of Scotland's Yard was killed. And then the case was assigned to you, and you haven't been really working at it after four days after the reassignment."

"I'm not hearing a question."

"Why are you delaying this? Shouldn't you be working on this case 24/7?"

"Do you think I would have been able to do that with the seventeen other seemingly mundane cases along with me?"

"…"

"I needed the time, I needed the space."

"That's not a plausible enough reason L."

"I also had found out everything that had to be found out. I have to still wait for his next action so that I can find out what he really wants."

"What are you talking about? He's blown up abandoned buildings, some factories, some skyscrapers. He wants attent-"

"He doesn't want attention, he wants to prove a point. I'm thinking that all he has done so far was just to find out how much the media would crane their necks to notice how much of attention they would pay."

"Like an experiment."

"It would be foolish to assume otherwise. That's why nothing concrete can be proven with what has happened."

"…I see…"

"Listen – if you don't have confidence in the way I work, it really doesn't matter. You aren't the only informer I have in the world. I have several more. Your opinion doesn't matter."

"I'm sorry L."

"Are we clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good. Now get going Watari. I want you to do more scouting. I recommend a better disguise. The American reporter is not going to hold up for long."

"I realize that."

"You'd better."

I cut the call.

My cup was empty for the last couple of minutes. I'm ashamed I didn't realize that earlier. I put on my scarf and I go outside for a walk. It was snowing. I liked snow.

I lock the apartment, and I put my hand in my pockets. New pants. They're olive green. I couldn't have cared less, but Misa wanted me to buy this particular one. And a white T-Shirt. As always. I got a new scarf too. It's white, but it's bigger. Makes me feel more at home.

Or rather, cozy. Not ore at home. Home was horrible.

Sometimes I wonder what's with the arsonist. Is he trying to remain secretive? Is he only going to be a symbol that everyone is going to be frightened of? Or is he going to show himself?

People ask me why I solve cases. It's because I can ask questions like these.

I turn left. They've opened a new café. Let's see how their cakes taste.

I pull a chair, and I sit down. Seeing as people aren't very appreciative of my usual posture of sitting, I try and sit on the chair like a (oh, yuck) _normal_ person. The waiter comes over, with a smile and asks me what I would like.

"The arsonist", I think. "Your finest cake", I say.

He nods emphatically as he walks away. I breathe out slowly, noticing how my breath is now being covered by fog.

It's an outdoor café. I like outdoor cafés. It allows me to observe a lot of people without getting too involved. Usually detectives have an extraordinary sense of socializing. "You aren't a detective then," was what one agent told me when I was an intern in the Secret Service. Before he got his nose broken with my fist, and hence we spend a lot of time loathing each other whenever we are around each other.

Misa, Watari, Chimera. That's it. Those are the people I really know personally. Misa has always been annoying, but she can help me out sometimes, although not professionally. She found out that I was an agent by purely detective methods. She's impressive that way. But a waste of talent. She prefers to be a fashion designer. Who needs fashion these days when buildings are getting blown up?

Watari has always been my face in the criminal underworld. I don't show my face in the place which brings a lot of attention – especially when a lot of them realize that the detective that brought their bosses to jail was me. The secret service has a lot of moles, but I don't bother about the overall security of the country. What I bother a lot more about, is my privacy.

Privacy. Sigh. The important I give for privacy is almost mind blowing. I don't think any international intelligence agency is as secretive as me. Which is why it is kind of amazing that Misa was able to break through. Because it _is_ brilliant.

The London Eye was almost right on my sight level. I get my cake. It was a black forest with whipped cream all over, and after a few bites, I noticed traces of raspberry and cranberry.

Not bad.

And that was around when the London Eye went up in flames.


End file.
